Mumbles, Rambles and Drabble
by punifa
Summary: Little ficlets and drabbles featuring various characters from BBC Sherlock, and ranging from humor to angst to romance. Very unrefined mind-vomit, most of it probably from prompts.
1. Meeting

Lestrade stands in front of a patrol car, watching as Sherlock stalks away from the crime scene. He had to have sustained a concussion at the least, but he was petulant as always; the paramedics knew it was useless to fuss over him. Lestrade rubs a weary hand through his prematurely silver hair, then glances up as a shadow passes over him, umbrella spokes casting sharp, dark spikes onto the ground.

"You worry about him." A stately man, dressed sharp and smooth, the only creases those of the frown on his face. Lestrade nods.

"So do I."


	2. Mutually Unnecessary

**Sort of Andermock. And it ain't crack, either.**

They both stand at the edge of the crime scene, fuming silently. Anderson seethes at John, who's standing over the body that _he_ should be examining. Dimmock is staring forlornly at Sherlock, who's already unraveling the crime faster than the DI can even take in the evidence. They glance up, eyes meeting, and suddenly they're chuckling softly.

"Don't need us much, eh?"

Anderson snorts and shakes his head. "May as well kick off somewhere else. They'd hardly notice."

Dimmock grins and nods. "'Spose they wouldn't. Drinks, then?"

Anderson bobs his head gratefully and they slink away, giggling like two naughty schoolchildren.


	3. Full Price

**Just a tiny drabble to the pairing prompt of Mycroft/Irene. Looking forward to writing more of Irene once I actually _see_ her character c:**

***I suppose this is vaguely spoilery for Series two, though if you've seen the trailers it's not.**

Heels click sharply across the hardwood floor, attached to an endlessly long body. Mycroft clasps his hands together and smiles.

"Irene Adler. Pleasure to meet "The Woman" herself."

A smirk spreads Irene's meticulously painted lips and she steps right up to Mycroft's chest, staring up at him beneath thick lashes and curling her manicured fingers around the handle of his umbrella.

"Hush, now." She draws the syllables out roughly, gently tugging the umbrella from Mycroft's fingers and dragging the tip of it up the back of his thigh.

"You've paid full price, Mr. Holmes. So stand still and keep that important mouth of yours shut."


	4. Cake

**Tiny taste of Moriarty/Moran. Hope they include Moran at some point in the series.**

"I don't like cake."

Sebastian smiles patiently, sliding the cupcake in front of Jim, digging a single candle down into its middle and pressing the ember of his cigarette to the wick.

"You'll like this one."

Jim huffs out the flame dispassionately as soon as it's alight, then tears an edge of the dark cake off in his fingers. He makes a face and tucks it into his mouth, then smiles with surprised delight.

"It tastes like ash." Sebastian grins, and Jim narrows his eyes, taking another contemplative nibble.

"You taste better." He tugs on Sebastian's collar, curling his tongue into his mouth and moaning softly to prove his point.


	5. Honey Child

**Some Sherlock/John fluff.**

John huffs with frustration as a buzz zooms past his ear yet again; he launches from his seat, snapping up the flyswatter. A yellow-and-black blur zips by, landing tauntingly on the edge of his book. He raises the swatter high, about to let it swing down when a hand snakes around his waist and fingers grasp his elbow.

"Don't hurt our children, John. He's just a honeybee." Warmth suddenly comes in sunbursts in his chest and he lets the swatter clatter to the floor. Sherlock leans against him, stretching a long white finger out to scoop up the bee, raising it in front of their faces and pressing a smile behind John's ear.


	6. Aphrodite

**Here's some Mycroft/Anthea (it's very fun to play around with all of these characters! Good practice c:)**

_How shall I address you today?_

_MH_

She smirks, fingers hovering over the keys. A mischievous glint leaps into her eyes and she taps away.

_Aphrodite will do well for today, I think._

Mycroft grins at his phone, leaning forward onto his desk, sipping languidly at his tea.

_Will your character suit your name?_

_MH_

She strides down the hallway, staring treacherously at the small screen instead of at her path.

_Is it not always that way for you?_

The door opens and Mycroft glances up, tucking his phone into his suit pocket.

"Evening, Aphrodite."


	7. Just for You

**And some JimLock now. (Write all the pairings, I suppose? I want to do more for this pairing)**

Valentine's Day. Dismal and cloyed with pink. Normally Sherlock would hole up inside, but not this time – not when a bloody, still-warm heart has been left outside his front door. He lifts it with a quirk of his lips, turning it in his hands, fingering the muscles and tissue. "Beautiful."

"Isn't it? I picked it out just for you. A kind one. Stupid, but kind. You like those." The voice lilts into his ear, behind him, and he feels warm breath and the breeze from the open window. A slow smile spreads over his lips and he turns around.


	8. Tea and Accidents

**Kid Sherlock and Teenage Mycroft**

"My?"

"Bugger off to bed. It's late and I'm studying."

Sherlock shrinks back, thick curls tumbling over his eyes. He shifts uncomfortably in his damp pajamas, glancing up, eyes watering with shame.

"It happened again. I hate that tea. It makes me drowsy and then…" He hiccups softly and Mycroft rises with a sigh, setting his pen down and rubbing at his eyes. He places a hand on Sherlock's drooped shoulder and nudges him gently.

"Bathroom with you. I'll change the sheets while you wash up. I'll tell Mummy that the tea gives you a stomach ache."


	9. Sleigh Bells

**More AnderMock to the prompt "Sleigh bells." Anderson's first name is David and Dimmock's is Ian.**

"You look bored." Ian glances next to him as David leans against the porch railing, a frothy, creamy drink in hand. He sighs and nods.

"Bit, yeah." David raises the glass with a grin.

"But it's a party! Have some eggnog." Ian grimaces, blood rising to his cheeks.

"Er, can't. I'm the designated driver." David's grin slips into a frown and he shakes his head.

"Oh, they can sod off. Make them take a cab." He tilts his head and his lips curve back up as the faint tinkling of bells and the clopping of hooves floats from the street, just barely discernible over the blasting Christmas carols coming from the house. "Oh - they can take the sleigh!" David giggles, swaying forward, and Ian rescues the eggnog from his waving hand with a twitching grin. David mashes his lips into a thin line and stares at him intently.

"I'm serious. You need to have fun. They just..." He screws up his face and waves his hands in the air. "They don't... Let 'em take care of themselves."

Ian laughs, nodding, and raises the steaming glass to his lips. He takes a sip and splutters. "That's strong!" David tosses an arm over his shoulder, jostling him and splattering a bit of the eggnog.

"Drink it!" Ian complies, sipping carefully this time, and once he's finished his head is foggy and he sways slightly on his feet. He isn't used to alcohol - he was usually the one sitting in the corner, sucking on a glass of juice and then driving his friends home.

"D'you wanna go back inside?" David gestures at the open door. Ian glances in; Lestrade is hauling one of the decorated trees across the floor, egged on by Donovan and John. Ian shakes his head.

"It's loud. I want to go for a walk." He starts off on slightly unsteady legs and David hurries after him.

"I'll come with you!"

They walk in silence for a few minutes, the swell of sound from the party fading as they reach the sidewalk. David starts giggling again and Ian glances over with a smile.

"What's funny?"

"You just left. And they think you're lifting them home."

"Well, it'd be illegal now, wouldn't it?" They both dissolve into laughter, leaning heavily into each other as they slide down onto the pavement. As their laughter subsides the sound of bells trickles down the street once more, and they both glance round and spot a stocky horse drawing a sleigh, urged on by the burly man at the reins. Ian pokes David in the side.

"Hey, hey, I have an idea! _We_ can take the sleigh!" They stifle more laughter as they rise to their feet, supporting each other as they stumble towards the sleigh, arms outstretched. It slows to a stop and the man regards their drunken state for a moment, shrugs, and jerks his thumb towards the seat behind him. They clamber on, landing in a confused heap on the cushions, one of Ian's legs trapped under David's. They sit and wait for the sleigh to take off.

"Why isn't it going?"

"We have to pay him, you dolt." Ian leans forward, dropping a note into the man's hand. He takes it with a grunt, and with a snap of the reins they're rolling down the street, jostled as the seat rocks back and forth, surrounded by the soft clatter of the bells. David shimmies his arm behind Ian, who jumps slightly.

"S'cold," David explains, and Ian relaxes into him.

"Yeah."

"But this's nice."

"Mm…"

"D'you know where we're going?" Ian frowns. He'd lean forward to ask the driver, but he's quite comfortable where he is.

"No clue. Should we be worried?"

"Nah. C'mere, it's still cold." David wraps both his arm around Ian and they sit there, Ian getting lulled into sleep by the rocking of the carriage and the warmth bubbled around him.

The carriage comes full circle, and when neither of the men wakes up the driver shoves them off the seat and into the snow. They jump up, the cold sharpening their minds a bit, and are just about to run after the sleigh when Lestrade comes up behind them, red-faced and panting.

"You left! I haven't got cash for a cab!"

David and Ian glance at each other, lips twitching madly as Lestrade carries on until they can hold back their laughter no longer, tossing their heads back and laughing until their stomachs hurt. Lestrade stumbles off with a huff, but there's a grin on his face.


	10. Innuendo

**Something new. John/Mycroft prompt from tumblr.**

"We won't take it." Sherlock waves his brother off with a flick of his wrist and Mycroft frowns.

"Oh, surely you can at least spare John. He does such _brilliant_ legwork." John flushes, mouth falling open, because that, with the sly eyebrow-raise and the crooked grin, was definitely innuendo. And Sherlock picked up on it, of course; eyes narrowing, head whipping between his brother and his friend. In spite of his mortification John has to stifle a laugh when Sherlock's eyes widen and his nose wrinkles.

"What do you say, Doctor Watson? Judging by your recent work it won't be too strenuous for you." John and Sherlock hadn't taken any cases from Mycroft in _months_, so the implication was clear – and if he didn't know already, Sherlock had just been enlightened to where John has been disappearing to recently. The doctor clears his throat and looks down.

"I'd love to help." Mycroft beams. Sherlock pretends to gag. John goes red to the tips of his ears, but he smiles at the floor.


	11. Gift

**Some Molliarty. Another prompt from tumblr.**

"Happy Christmas, Jim."

The words are out of Molly's mouth before Jim has even stepped into the morgue. He glances behind him then lets his face relax into a wolfish grin.

"What ever did you get me, love? I see it all wrapped up on the table. Not a regular old corpse, surely?"

Molly's owlish eyes pop even wider and she shakes her head, moving to the occupied body bag and fingering the zipper. She tilts her head and smiles – Jim never minds when she tries out new lipsticks, and tonight she's gone for a very bloody red – as she pulls the zip down in one swift motion.

"Oh, _wonderful_ work, Molly!" Jim claps his hands together and makes his way to the table, eyes shining. "It looks so much like him! That _hair_, those gorgeous _eyes._ You didn't tie the gag too tight, did you, love? Wouldn't want those precious lips to get chapped."

Molly beams as Jim examines the bound man. She had seen him leaving the hospital and hadn't been able to ignore past his tumultuous black curls or his lanky frame – Jim just had to have him, and Christmastime offered the perfect excuse. So she followed him out, shedding her lab coat, and offered a tearful story of a sick cat and lack of cab fare. It had been much too easy to get into the car and slips a needle into his shoulder.

She glances up in surprise when Jim appears right in front of her – he has a tendency to pop up like that – but her eyes flutter shut when his mouth drops down onto hers.

"I'm hoping my next gift will be the real thing," Jim whispers against her lips, and for a while they ignore the muffled sounds that the man works past his gag.


	12. Come Inside

**Another from tumblr, Mollrene this time (one of my favorites).**

Molly knocks on the door to 221B, and waits, knocks again, waits some more. Just as she's about to turn away the door swings open, and her heart falls just a little when she takes in the gorgeous, dark haired woman; the kind of woman who never wore too much lipstick or too little, who could wear any dress like a second skin.

"Sherlock's not home." Her voice is gravel and honey, wrapping around Sherlock's name with a familiarity that makes Molly's chest ache - even though she had long given up hope.

"You look lost. Why don't you come inside? I'm sure he won't mind." Molly stammers, gesturing down the street, but the woman tuts and extends her hand, capturing one of Molly's floundering ones and pulling her inside.


	13. Pretty

**Three sentence prompt: Sally and Molly meet.**

"He's not interested, you know; the Freak doesn't do relationships, not with pretty girls." Molly jumps, hands winding together as she stares up at the bushy-haired officer who had spoken. "What do you - did you just call me pretty?"


	14. Sloshed

**Tumblr Prompt: Dimmock and Lestrade**

It would have been a very bad idea when he was just a Sergeant. It was probably still a bad idea now that he was a Detective Inspector, but alcohol tends to scramble your judgment in situations like this, and Dimmock was certainly scrambled, positively _sloshed._

And so, now that he's on equal ground with the DI he's been admiring for _ages_, and now that Donovan has fed him enough potent cocktails to take down a horse, he saunters (or rather, stumbles) through the crowd, tosses himself onto Lestrade's lap, and snogs him for all he's worth.

The (only slightly more sober) Detective Inspector reciprocates enthusiastically, and they're surrounded by a cacophony of catcalls. They slip off in a cab later on (they'd driven there, but taking one of their own vehicles back was entirely out of the question). In spite of the sly comments tossed their way when they arrive at the Yard together the next morning, they enjoy a cozy night curled up on Lestrade's couch (they had passed out before they made it to the bed).


	15. Slug

**Tumblr prompt from my favorite prompter: Sherlock has a fondness for slugs, which John only learns when he almost kills one in the bathroom.**

John has never liked slugs. He remembers, when he was a child, finding one nestled between the tomato and bread of a sandwich. After that he'd gone out into his mother's garden, armed with a full salt shaker, and proceeded to season every slug amidst the leaves and grass to their deaths; his first noble war, in the defense of his mother's peppers and tomatoes.

Which is why, when he finds one leaving a shiny trail along the bathroom tile, he swiftly makes his way to the kitchen, snatching up the salt and determinedly making his way back. As he passes through the living room Sherlock glances up from (John's) laptop, eyes zeroing in on the salt shaker and John's grim expression. He creases his eyebrows and shuts the laptop.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking care of a problem," John calls from the hallway, re-entering the bathroom to find the slug making its way up the side of the tub. He frowns even deeper, grooves appearing on his forehead, and shakes some salt into his hand. He raises his hand, tilts it, feels the salt begin to slide in his palm –

"Stop!" John whips his head around, hand closing into a fist around the salt, to find Sherlock standing in the doorway looking incredibly distraught. He sucks in a breath and closes his eyes.

"I don't care if it's one of your experiments, Sherlock; we agreed that they would stay _out of the bathroom_."

"It's not one of mine; _you_ brought him in," Sherlock says coolly, though he's eyeing the shaker of salt sharply. John shakes his head.

"_I_ did?"

"On your shoes. It's hardly the slug's fault."

"So I can't kill it?" Sherlock shakes his head, stepping into the bathroom, gaze flicking almost nervously between the slug and John's fist. John scoffs, moving his attentions back to the slug.

"That's ridiculous. How may rats have you done in?" He tips his hand again and suddenly Sherlock is kneeling right behind him, pale fingers darting out and scooping the slug off of the porcelain. John shudders as he watches it ooze across his skin, salt pouring from his hand and onto the floor.

"I'll just put him outside," Sherlock says, leaping up and out of the room, leaving John kneeling on the tile with a puzzled look on his face.

He swears, as he hears Sherlock make his way down the hallway, that the Detective is murmuring reassurances to the traumatized mollusk.


	16. Nerves

**Tumblr prompt: Sherlock starts pulling his hair out as a nervous habit; John finds him a new hobby.**

John steps into the bathroom, towel tight around his waist. He's just about to slip into the shower when he glances in the sink, spotting broken, wiry black hairs speckled against the white surface. Nostrils flaring, he exits the bathroom and storms into the living room, where his flatmate is lounging on the couch, the perfect picture of relaxation but for the fist curled tightly in his hair. "Sherlock Holmes, I am going to permanently fix mittens to your hands."

The man scoffs, plucking a strand of hair from his scalp and holding it up to the light. "That would do little in keeping this from happening. And shut up; it helps me think."

"_Everything_ bad that you do helps you think. And we're not on a case so you can _stop thinking._" Sherlock whips his head up, eyes flattening into slits, nose wrinkling.

"Stop thinking? You should be arrested." John shakes his head and retreats to the bathroom with a weary sigh.

—

"For God's sakes, play your violin."

"Not in the mood."

"Try… videogames, or something. Knitting."

"Now you sound like Donovan." John groans and shakes his head, eyeing Sherlock seriously.

"You'll go bald." That stops the detective, and for the rest of the day John thinks it's worked, until he finds a smattering of hairs on his Union Jack pillow.

—

John decides that the bathroom sink regurgitating masses of knotted black balls is the last straw. He spends the better part of his day rifling through the strange, tiny shops lining obscure streets until he finds what he's looking for.

He enters his flat with a small box balanced in one hand, marching up to where Sherlock is dozing on the sofa, fist once again tangled in his hair. John nudges his legs aside and settles in the vacated space, ignoring his grunt of annoyance as he reaches out and tugs his hand gently from his curls.

"Don't object. Don't whine. Just look." He deposits the box in Sherlock's hand, watching as he opens it and pulls out the seven-by-seven rubix cube that John had spent hours searching for.

Sherlock passes his fingers over the colorful squares, eyebrows creased.

"A puzzle?"

"Look, I know it won't take you more than an hour in total to solve it, but after that I'll find you another one. You wouldn't believe the things they have in those shops."

Sherlock's lips curve into a warm smile as he begins twisting the cube. He glances up after a few minutes, smile tightening into a smirk.

"You really _are_ like Donovan."

"Oh, shut up." John bats at Sherlock's knee but grins in relief, though many weeks later he frowns at his empty wallet and the overflowing drawer that Sherlock fills with each solved puzzle. It works, though; the flat no longer looks like it's home to a silky-haired black cat. Still, he resolves to consult Mycroft about designing something that will take Sherlock longer than a day to solve.


	17. JW is Online

**A small drabble I did on tumblr. Enjoy!**

John peers over his laptop screen at Sherlock, catching only the top of his eyes over the detective's own computer. He goes to speak but Sherlock shakes his head and glances pointedly down at where his keyboard would be. John sighs and begins tapping slowly at his keys.

**JW 19:34: **This is ridiculous.

**SH 19:35:** No, it's relevant.

**JW 19:38:** Pass it by me one more time. Maybe it will make more sense on screen than it did running out of your mouth faster than a magnet train.

**SH 19:40: **Don't waste time on literary devices, John, you take twice as long typing.

**JW 19:41: **I'm going to log out.

**SH 19:43:** Neither party was with the other at the time. They were in separate houses but shared a connection through their instant messenger. They were writing a collaborative story - 'roleplaying', it's called. We are going to replicate the situation.

**JW 19:44:** That's not relevant. You solved that case.

**SH 19:44: **Data, John, now get on with it.

**JW 19:45: **Who the bloody hell am I supposed to be?

**SH 19:46:** Try someone we know. Or a character from one of those crap shows you watch on telly.

**JW 19:48:** Hi, I'm Sherlock Holmes, and I'm going to infuriate my flatmate to death and grin while I do it.

**SH 19:49: **Not funny, John. Be serious.

**JW 19:51: **I am. Utterly serious. That's the most honest portrayal of you that's ever been written.

**SH 19:51: **I can see that this experiment isn't going to work.

**JW 19:52: **Whatever gave you that idea?

**SH 19:54:** I'm John Watson and I refuse to help my flatmate gather information which has the potential to save lives in future cases.

**JW 19:55: **Don't pull that on me.

**SH 19:56: **Never has a more honest portrayal been written.

**_JW has signed out._**

"John?"

"Battery's dying."

Sherlock narrows his eyes, tracing the cord snaking out of John laptop and into the outlet on the wall. "Don't lie, John, you know it doesn't work."

"I'm not going to do this if you're insulting me every other message."

Sherlock sighs, eyes rolling dramatically. "Fine. I won't be you. I'll be my brother."

John's lips quirk and he stifles a laugh. "…Who will I be, then?"

"Mrs. Hudson. I'm going to track up your freshly cleaned floors." John's eyes crinkle at the edges and his lips tremble madly as he tries to restrain his laughter, but Sherlock catches his eyes with a mirrored gaze and the room explodes in a hiccuping cacophony of mirth.

**_JW is online._**


	18. Trim

**Post-Fall, Molly cuts Sherlock's hair.**

"Sorry, what?" Molly glances up from where Toby is curled comfortably in her lap to where Sherlock is looming beside her chair, eyes stony with determination.

"I detest repetition, Molly." She cringes slightly into her chair and Toby leaps from her knees, pattering around Sherlock's ankles.

"It's just, well… I'm no hairdresser. And I haven't got proper shears."

"Kitchen scissors will do, and since it's probably best if it's butchered anyway your lack of skill is perfectly suited for the job." Molly sighs and rises from the comfort of her chair. Having Sherlock staying with her – even for just two weeks – was… well, to be honest, just as difficult as she would have expected. For the first few days he'd curled up in bed, refusing to do anything other than check his e-mails and scrutinize some intimidating looking files. Then, of course, he hadn't brought any extra clothes so she'd had to deal with him wandering the house in a hospital gown until she could scrounge some cheap, completely not-Sherlock outfits from a secondhand shop.

Molly removes an intimidating set of kitchen scissors from a drawer and turns around, squeaking softly when she nearly bumps into Sherlock's chest. There's that, too, how he just sneaks up on her without a whisper of sound. He wrinkles his nose at the scissors but drags a chair from the table and plops himself onto it, staring at her pointedly when she hesitates.

"I-I'll just get a towel for your shoulders. And a sheet for the floor, goodness knows Toby leaves enough hair as it is."

"Fur."

"What?"

"He leaves _fur_, not hair."

Molly heaves a sigh. "Right." She hastens to the linen closet, tugging out a sheet and a small towel. Sherlock stands and actually goes so far as to lift the chair for her while she spreads the cloth underneath it before settling back down and allowing her to drape the towel over his shoulders. He tips his head back and waits, and Molly approaches him carefully before another thought jumps into her mind.

"Oh! We'll have to wet your hair." She's off before he can object, returning with a clear, water-filled spray bottle. She steps behind him once again and he huffs petulantly but makes no further comment, shutting his eyes and waiting.

Molly quickly douses his hair with the spray bottle; the room is silent except for the pitter-patter of stray drops of water plummeting onto the sheet. As she lifts a silky hank of hair between her fingers she thinks how absurd this is – she'd imagined her fingers in Sherlock's hair on more than one occasion, but so much had shifted between them that no thrill ran through her, and her cheeks remained un-tinted by blush. She is still, however, incredibly hesitant, because she's always admired Sherlock's hair.

"On with it, Molly," Sherlock drawls impatiently, and she sets her lips and makes the first cut.

It's surprisingly companionable, neither of them speaking, just the snick of the scissors and the soft thumping as his hair gathers on the floor. The only communication between them is the gentle guidance of her fingers, tipping his head this way and that in an effort to keep his hair at least slightly aligned.

At last, with her fingers aching from the ill-suited handles of the scissors, Molly steps back, observing her work. It's a little bit lopsided, and some bits are too shaggy, but without that mad fringe of hair sweeping over his forehead and around his cheeks Sherlock looks slightly vulnerable, and almost like a uni-student. At least until his eyes narrow and he runs his fingers through his hair, spilling loose strands onto his shoulders.

"Let me see." Molly nods, fetching the small wall-mirror from her living room and handing it off to him. He glances into it briefly before making another demand. "You have a ball cap in your coat closet. Bring it to me." After a heartbeat of a pause he adds, to her near-shock, "please."

She finds the cap and sets it over his extended fingers, curling her hands together as he pulls it onto his head and looks into the mirror once more.

Sherlock is silent, but his eyes soften and his lips droop gently at the corners. Molly's heart constricts briefly.

"You look… sad again."

Sherlock simply continues staring in the mirror, eyes tightening slightly.

"Because he won't recognize you."

He tugs the cap lower over his face, casting shadows over his cheekbones, shutting out the glint of his clear irises, transforming himself effectively enough. He sets the mirror against the legs of his chair and rises, tossing the towel from his shoulders and onto the floor.

"Thank you, Molly." Sherlock stalks off and shuts himself into the guest bedroom, leaving a lonely trail of hair behind him. Molly stares at his closed door for a moment, then begins sweeping up the floor, gathering the clumps of hair into a bag and tossing them into the bin.


	19. Violin

**Tumblr prompt: Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock have a heart-to-heart about Sherlock's feelings for John, which results in Sherlock writing a violin concerto for John. (Didn't quite adhere to the prompt, but enjoy nonetheless!)**

"He's asked about you, you know," Mrs. Hudson says, settling on the couch next to Sherlock and handing him a perfectly seasoned cup of tea. He stretches his bare feet and tilts his head.

"John?"

"Well, who else, dear? Seems awfully worried about you. Seems to me he thinks you're sad."

Sherlock's eyebrows crease and his nose crinkles softly as he accepts the biscuit that his landlady waves in front of him. "Why would I be sad?"

Mrs. Hudson folds her hands in her lap, focusing on the slight chipping of her magenta nail polish as she speaks. "He says the songs you play are depressing."

Sherlock snaps his head up, eyes widening. "He doesn't like them, then? He usually seems to appreciate them."

"Oh, he thinks they're beautiful, but he's concerned that they reflect how you're feeling."

"I'm not depressed. The world is depressingly boring. Maybe that's what he hears."

Mrs. Hudson chuckles, shaking her head. "That would explain it."

"He shouldn't be needlessly concerned. If it will fix it I could write one for him."

His landlady raises her hand to hide a smile, but her crinkling eyes give it away. "You could make something happy for him, you think?"

Sherlock nods, hands stretching out to snatch a sheet of staff paper and a fountain pen from beneath a pile of books. He jots down several notes then glances around, spotting his violin case resting in John's chair. He crosses over to it, unpacking it almost in a trance, returning to the paper and balancing it on a stand. Mrs. Hudson slips down the stairs, ears perking and grin growing at the clamor of messy but cheerful notes that quickly smooth out into a gentle resonance of sound, occasionally swooping up into a cacophony of frenzied excitement.

—

"John!" Sherlock knocks once on John's door before pushing it open, flooding the hall light into the Doctor's small bedroom and receiving a frustrated groan in response. John sits up, rubbing at his eyes.

"It's _Sunday_, Sherlock, surely I can sleep past three in the morning." Once his eyes have adjusted to the artificial light he notices that Sherlock has his violin clutched in one hand and an eager look on his face that's incredibly hard to ignore, especially when it falls just slightly at his words. He stifles a yawn and sits up straighter.

"You've written something?"

Sherlock nods, biting into his lip and brandishing his bow. He stands tall, shoulders slightly back, and without a word tucks the violin snugly under his chin and kisses the bow to its strings.

It starts out slowly, as they so often seem to do, and John prepares himself to feel a rush of emptiness when the song progresses - but it doesn't come. The notes lift, for once, as they have never done in the man's own compositions, and John finds himself leaning forward, lips tugging upward, heart rocketing when joyous sounds spring into the air, warmth flooding him when a harmony slips smoothly into his ears, slow but content, not mournful at all. Sherlock's eyes flicker up now and then, and though his mouth is set into a gentle line his eyes are wrinkled at the edges.

He finishes with a flourish, a soaring dance that settles slowly, softening into resonating comfort before he slips the bow from the strings, lowers the violin, and stares up expectantly, beaming - and then his face crumbles when he sees tears in John's eyes. "You didn't like it? That one was for you. How could it go wrong?"

John's breath catches on the shadow of a sob and he slides out of the bed. "For me?"

He nods, eyes slightly narrowed. He hadn't been at all bored, he hadn't been contemplating their lack of cases or the unenthralling inquiries he had been receiving on his website. He had been thinking of laughing breathlessly against Mrs. Hudson's wallpaper, of mugs of tea set wordlessly next to his laptop, of "brilliant" and "fantastic." So what could _possibly_ have -

A strong set of arms encase Sherlock's chest, radiating warmth through his robe; John's face is pressed into his collar bone, saltwater spotting his shirt. Sherlock raises his hands automatically, returning the embrace awkwardly with the instrument still in hand. There's an absence of noise except for the soft blend of their breathing, then John glances up, blue eyes still brimming like oceans, and grins.

"Thank you."


	20. Debatable

**Kid Sherlock and Teenage Mycroft again.**

"And so I'll be applying in the fall-"

"That's debatable."

Mycroft stares incredulously over at his little brother, eyebrows and lips crinkling into an aggravated frown. He holds his gaze for a pointed half-minute, then slowly turns back to his friend and resumes speaking.

"As I was saying, I'll be applying in the fall. It's one of the best schools in the country-"

"Debatable!" Sherlock spouts with a gleeful grin, ducking beneath the coffee table to avoid Mycroft's glare. The older Holmes heaves a sigh and smiles tightly at his friend. "Don't mind him; he's just discovered the dictionary. Shall we go to my room?"

Dark curls poke out from beneath the table, small head tilted at the softly-chuckling blond haired girl sitting in the armchair. Sherlock crawls from beneath the furniture and whips around to face Mycroft, hands on his hips. "Mother might _debate_ that!"

Mycroft smiles venomously at his brother. "Then why don't you go to _your_ room?"

Sherlock draws up to his full (lack of) height, chin in the air. "I'm supervising."

Mycroft rises, placing a hand on one tiny shoulder. "Why don't you go look up a new word? Obnoxious. I think you'll find that it describes you perfectly."

Sherlock's eyes widen and he smiles, nodding before scurrying off to the library room. Mycroft settles down and finishes his conversation in peace.

Once Mycroft has bid his friend farewell he wanders into the library in search of the very application papers he'd been speaking of. He's rifling through a folder when he hears a soft sniffling from behind a shelf. He shuts the folder and quietly rounds the corner, where he finds a head of bird's-nest hair resting on the open pages of the dictionary, tiny whimpers drifting through the air as Sherlock soaks the pages with salt water.

Sherlock lifts his head, eyes puffy and streaming, and Mycroft catches the row of "o" words running down the page, his mouth forming the shape of the vowel in realization.

"It says that obnoxious is 'extremely unpleasant.' Am I always obnoxious, My?" He snivels, thin voice wobbling, and Mycroft rubs a hand over his eyes before sliding the dictionary from his lap and setting it aside. He reaches out and draws his little brother into his chest.

"Not _all_ the time. Just sometimes. But don't worry; I've been told I'm an egotistical prat at times. You can look that up later."

Sherlock's fingers curl into Mycroft's collar and he stares up at him, blinking hard. "You're not still upset?"

"No." Mycroft smiles, genuinely this time, and pats the top of Sherlock's head. Sherlock's lips tremble slightly.

"I thought you didn't like me anymore."

"Don't be preposterous. I love you, Sherlock." Sherlock's lips quirked up at the rarely-spoken words.

"That's debatable," he says, hiding his smile against Mycroft's shoulder.

"No," Mycroft murmurs, smiling softly. "It's not."


	21. Booty Shorts

**Prompt from tumblr. My first real go at Mystrade, slightly cracky (I mean, look at the title), and very fun to write.**

Mycroft glances warily around his bedroom – ridiculous to do, since _he's_ the one that watches people, not the other way round. Nevertheless, he crosses to his window and makes sure that the curtains are securely shut, then makes his way to his closet. He steps inside, bypassing the rows of carefully pressed suits and furtively opening a small drawer at the back.

Nestled among the silk boxers (all plainly colored, dark blues or blacks) is a shock of pink; kitten's nose pink, powdery and delicate. He lifts up the tiny shorts, scrutinizing them, then glancing down at his thighs with a skeptical frown. He folds the shorts up and carefully places them on the shelf, hesitating for a moment before shimmying out of his trousers; he lets those pool on the floor, then he takes the shorts in hand again and steps his feet through them.

Mycroft sucks in a breath. All those months of sweating (disgusting and undignified, but necessary) away at the treadmill, of foregoing the crème pies and the pound cakes, comes down to this. He closes his eyes, bends down, and pulls the shorts up his legs.

A small gasp of surprise leaves him when they glide over his hips, settling snugly (but amazingly not _too_ snugly) around his waist. He swallows hard, leaving the closet and removing the sheet from the full length mirror propped against his wall. He stares into the mirror in disbelief, then turns to the side, then all the way around, craning his head to see himself. The seat of the shorts stretches slightly over his behind, hugging the (dare he think it?) _muscles_ there in a very flattering way.

While Mycroft is standing there, enraptured by his own physique, his door opens soundlessly (very well maintained hinges, oiled once a month) and a certain silver-haired detective inspector slips inside, choking on his greeting at the view he's offered. He has to swallows several times and wet his lips before he can speak, words directed to a pink-clad bottom.

"Didn't know you gave me full clearance into your house. I'm touched."

Mycroft tenses (especially in the gluteus region, which Greg notes with a grin) then swiftly turns around, tipping his head back and swallowing, looking about as dignified as anyone could ever be while wearing a pair of soft-pink booty shorts.

"I would have expected you to knock."

"I texted you." Greg plucks up his phone and waves it briefly in the air, then sets it on a table and shrugs out of his coat.

"I told you dinner would be at six. It's only half four." Mycroft makes to step past Lestrade and into his closet, determined to don a pair of trousers. Greg catches him by the arm, a lopsided grin plastered over his face as he pulls him close, free hand dropping to his waist, curving over his hip then palming the soft fabric pulled over one firm cheek.

"Well, now we have time to work up our appetites, yeah?"


	22. Ashtray

**Prompt: "****what happened to the ashtray Sherlock stole?" **

"Look at it, John. It's just sitting there, not doing its job. How would you feel if I blocked your blog from our IP address?"

John glares at Sherlock, then at the ashtray sitting innocently on the corner of the coffee table. Never should have mentioned stealing it.

"You've been three weeks without, Sherlock. And my work is the hospital, not this blog - haven't seen a cent from it in _months_, thanks to you."

Sherlock snorts and snatches the ashtray up in his fingers, tossing it from hand to hand. He holds it up, turning it so its smooth surfaces tosses phantoms of light on the wall.

"It's too clean. One pack would do it. Then it would fit in with the rest of the flat and I wouldn't notice it so much." Sherlock holds the concave side of it to his eye, peering through it at John so that he appears to be half giant-squid. John hefts a sigh and snaps his laptop shut.

"Check your phone. I think I heard it go off earlier. You probably have a case."

Sherlock pouts. "Get it for me, then."

For once John doesn't complain, plucking the device from underneath a half-eaten plate of takeaway and handing it off to the detective, who immediately sets the ashtray down and begins to tap away at the keys.

"Be ready in five minutes, John," he says over his shoulder as he leaps up and dashes to his room. John waits until he hears Sherlock's drawers slide open and closed before plucking up the ashtray and spiriting it up into his room.

—

"What have you done with it?"

John glances up, blinking innocently. "With what?"

"Oh, you know that won't work on me. The ashtray, John, what did you do with it?"

John turns back to the telly, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. "Oh, that old thing. Fetched a pretty price on eBay."


End file.
